“Black buildings and black looks,” Haisan murmured beside her, too low for all but the four priests to hear. “It does not bode well to start our day.”
“Of course it does,” Naranpa corrected him in the same low whisper. “Do not our ancestors teach that all exist in dualities, scholar? Earth and sky, summer and winter? And among the clans, the brightness of Golden Eagle must be balanced by the shadow of Carrion Crow? The fire of Winged Serpent against Water Strider?”
“True,” he admitted with a resigned sigh. “And yet I find Odo disquieting.”
“They do not like us here,” Abah said.
She was right, of course. They both were.
“Does that surprise you?” Naranpa asked. “They blame us for the Night of Knives. Another wound that we must repair.”
“I need not repair anything,” Abah protested. “I was not alive back then so have no responsibility for the Night of Knives. I don’t know why they hate me.”
“None of us was alive,” Naranpa said, “save Haisan, and him likely a child. But alive or not, we bear the burden.” And we all reap the benefit, she thought, but thought it best not to utter something so controversial aloud.
The priesthood had thought the Night of Knives a necessity at the time, a brutal rout of the heresy growing in Odo. Calling for the Night of Knives had been Kiutue’s predecessor’s doing and, Naranpa guessed, one of the reasons Kiutue himself strove to diminish the power of his own position. He had never admitted it to Naranpa, but it was easy enough to see. Living through it as a young man haunted him. Hundreds had died at the hands of the tsiyo. They had been citizens of Tova, Sky Made scions of what was one of the sacred clans. And yet they had been treated as enemies of the priesthood and slaughtered without mercy. The Night of Knives was a wound that festered in the city, a blight on its heart, and it had altered Tova in ways that still reverberated.
But the ugly truth was that the brutality had had the desired effect. It had humbled Carrion Crow, setting the clan back generations and driving the worship of their old god underground. Until recently, at least, when rumors of the cult’s resurgence had been heard.
“Ah, here now! We approach the Great House,” Haisan said as they reached a wide avenue that branched to the south. “Let us see if the clan matron greets us or not.”
The first test, Naranpa thought. If Carrion Crow doesn’t come to acknowledge our procession, it will be a humiliation and a sure sign that we are in fact enemies. But to Naranpa’s great relief, the matron of Carrion Crow waited before them.
Yatliza was tall and painfully thin. She wore a long black sheath dress of panther skin. A lustrous cape of crow feathers fell elegantly from her shoulders to the ground, and around her neck, a collar of rare red macaw feathers framed a regal face. Her hair was loose down her back and adorned with bits of mica that caught the morning light. For a moment Naranpa felt that old intimidation of the Sky Made stir in her once again. How could you look upon a woman like this and not think her better than you, something that came from another world, perhaps the stars themselves?
But you were chosen, Naranpa reminded herself. The Sky Made clans may be composed of queens, but Kiutue believed you were the future of the Watchers. Without you, there is no peace and their queendoms crumble. Do not forget!
But it was hard to remember, painful even. She could almost feel the other priests judging her. Haisan’s concern that she was disturbing the order of things, Abah’s thinly veiled disdain, Iktan… well, Iktan was her friend and would not judge her, but she sometimes wondered if xe thought she was in over her head but would not say it.
A few rote words of welcome and honor were exchanged, Naranpa managed it well enough, she thought, and then the procession was on its way again, headed to the next district.
Eagerly, they crossed the short bridge into Kun and left the black buildings and black looks of Odo behind.
By then the sun had risen in earnest and the morning frost had all but disappeared, making for a crisp but not miserable morning. As if sensing their western neighbors had not given the priestly procession an enthusiastic welcome, the district of Kun and clan Winged Serpent came out in earnest. The moment their feet left the bridge, a great cheer rose from the gathered crowd. Haisan made an approving sound, and Abah laughed, delighted. Naranpa felt a surge of gratitude and returned the appreciative nods of her fellow priests. Perhaps now they would think her idea not so foolish after all.
She turned to Iktan, but xe was silent behind xir mask. All around them, citizens shouted their support of the priesthood, waving green ribbons or dancing in rhythm to their processional drum, tiny bells jingling at their knees. It was a festival after Odo’s funeral march.
“This is excessive,” Iktan whispered at her side. She startled. Xe rarely spoke in public.
“What?” she asked over the din of singing and cheers.
“The Shuttering is a solemn day, not a day of celebration. Carrion Crow was a bit dour, yes, but they were more proper than this. What are they doing?”
She shrugged, annoyed at xir words. “Perhaps they’re just happy to see us, grateful for our service.”
“What service is that, Nara?”
“Was not Kiutue born Winged Serpent before he joined the celestial tower?” She meant it as proof of a shared history, but she could tell immediately Iktan took it poorly.
“We’re meant to set aside such relationships once we join the tower,” xe said, voice dark. “We are not to show favor to our birth clans, and they are not to remember us. Else we invite corruption. Our duty is to the heavens, is it not? They, unlike humans, are constant. Inviolable.” The last word dripped with sarcasm.
“Not now, Iktan. Please.” She was used to xir cynicism, but today was turning into a triumphant day. Couldn’t she relish it for just a little while?
She turned her attention away from xir and back to the crowd intent on enjoying herself, but some of the pleasure at the clan’s greeting had faded, and her old worries returned.
The matron of Winged Serpent had come down from their Great House to greet them in the road. Her name was Peyana. She was elegant, just as Yatliza had been, but Peyana had a vibrancy to her, a liveliness the Carrion Crow matron lacked. She wore a dress of iridescent winged serpent scales for the occasion that undulated like a living skin as she walked. Around her shoulders was a robe of bright green and blue feathers with bits of red and yellow threaded in. Her hair was coiled into two horns atop her head, and jade dripped like green flames from her ears.
After Naranpa and Peyana exchanged the ceremonial greeting, the procession did not stay long in Kun. Soon they had the bridge to Sun Rock at their feet.
“Do we not walk the whole district?” Abah asked.
“Kun is the largest district of Tova and stretches far down the cliffside,” Haisan answered before Naranpa could reply. “No need to walk the whole thing. It would take most of the day! And if we crossed the river there, we would enter the northern half of the city in the Eastern districts, which is all farmland. There is certainly no need to walk there. And the only way back toward the Sky Made districts is through the Maw.” He shuddered theatrically.
“We’ll cross the Tovasheh to Titidi by way of Sun Rock,” Naranpa added. “Then we can walk Titidi and Tsay and back across to Otsa by sunset.” She ignored Haisan’s insult of the Maw.